


Who Counts the Fountain's Droplets?

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Politics, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: They  make up, they plot, they lie.





	Who Counts the Fountain's Droplets?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Follow_the_halo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Follow_the_halo/gifts).
  * A translation of [Któż krople fontanny policzy?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554693) by [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka). 



> Follow_the_halo asked me to translate one of my fics - it took me ages, because translating things from Polish to English is a nightmare, but finally, here it is! 
> 
> Billion thanks to Isis for the beta! <3

‘As for that curse...’, Enid lay on the daybed, petting her ocelots’ ears. ‘I had no idea it was you Yennefer inquired about. I hope you believe me.’

Avallac’h stood. He was an Aen Saevherne, but not a king.

‘Absolutely.’ He smiled. ‘If you knew, you’d immediately come to Kaer Morhen, seeking the pleasure of my indisposition.’

‘We would have helped you.’

‘That I believe. And then you would put me in some tower in Dol Blathanna with dimeritium on my wrists, and inform Eredin that I was your prisoner.’

‘I’d not give you up without a fight.’

‘You would haggle heroically over the price, I’m sure.’

‘Not everybody has the luxury of jumping between worlds, Crevan.’

He almost cringed. Who did she think she was? But of course, Enid was a queen now. She could call him “an old, foolish, impotent dotard”, if she wanted to. In public. In private, she had already done so.

‘My people, in case you forgot, Mister oh-so-wrapped-up-in-your-research, are trapped here.’

‘Eredin wouldn’t be able to help you. With him, Ciri would never... ’

‘I have betrayed people and causes, too , Crevan. I don’t need your excuses. And Aen Saevherne never apologise.’

Of course not. Even suggesting it – the nerve!

‘Which means you came here with a request. What’s this is about? That interdimensional kerfuffle in Skellige messed up the portals? You can’t find the way back to your luxury mansion in Tir na Lia and must concern yourself with our problems? Our bumpy roads, harsh winters, and human chauvinism?

‘Getting the Aen Seidhe out of here is the Aen Elle’s first priority.’ Crevan hoped he didn’t sound too condescending. He hadn’t come here, after all, to offend Enid.

She didn’t seem offended. Her manner suggested she was only lazily amused.

‘And what does it tell me about your abilities that you have failed at this?’ she sighed. ‘Will you tell me, finally, the reason I have the honour of a visit from the Aen Saevherne?’

‘I want to say goodbye.’

The fingers stopped moving in the cat’s fur .

‘You disappeared for decades and not once bother to—do you suppose you might die?’

‘I should, at my age.’

‘Be careful to not remind me of mine. That would be impolite... So, your typical behaviour. At least now you don’t dare to swear in the presence of my royal person.’ She stretched, theatrically, made herself comfortable on the récamier. ‘Do you think Ge’els will kill you? Or the other Wild Hunt riders, craving revenge for Eredin’s death? Maybe Caranthir’s family? To have irritated so many... Splendidly done. Just what I’d expect from an Aen Saevherne.’

‘What I do think is that much may happen during the mess that is an _interregnum_.’

‘Ah. So you want Auberon’s place. Because you care so much about Aen Seidhe, I’m certain.’ She knitted those beautiful brows. Avallac’h briefly wondered if she practiced all of her pretty faces in the mirror. ‘I would gladly offer you asylum, but if you prefer to risk your life for a torc’h , be my guest. Goodbye.’ She paused, then blinked slowly, and tipped her head to the left. ‘We said our goodbyes. Why are you still here?’

Avallac’h almost rolled his eyes. Enid was worse than even Auberon. Auberon had been a king for a long, long time, which meant he had been also too blasé for sulking. He had waved off the worst insults with a small gesture of his hand and some mild sentence, announced in a gentle, bored voice. It had been genuine, when he'd done it. Enid’s nonchalance was just a trained pose. Surely it was because of all the years she had spent bending her knee to humans.

Avallac’h barely caught himself before saying this aloud. Instead he said, ‘No “good luck”? No glove as a sign of My Lady’s grace?’

‘Ah. So you plan to wander along the corridors of Tir na Lia’s palace, insisting you have the support of foreign rulers, something that your rivals are sorely lacking?’

‘Something along these lines, yes.’

‘And if Ge’els appeared here, asking me for the other glove – or for a garter even? What then?’

Are we talking politics or sex here?, Avallac’h mentally sighed. Sometimes, just sometimes, the unwritten elfish rule that one must express complete disinterest in matters of both bedroom and throne room was rather inconvenient.

‘I’d ask you to refuse him.’

‘And offend a future king? Potential king, I mean.’ She rose her hand in a momentary placating gesture, then returned to playing with her cats almost immediately. ‘I didn’t think you would be jealous. It’s sweet. Almost like the Dh’oine.’

Crevan nearly felt offended – at that “Dh’oine” or at that “almost”, he wasn’t sure – but reminded himself that elven women had always been obsessed with male humans. He had experienced it firsthand, and painfully. Remain above this , he hissed in his mind. Biology is nothing worth being offended at.

‘Do you want my kiss? As a goodbye? For luck?’

That startled him. Apparently he didn’t manage to hide it, because Enid started to laugh. ‘Oh, but I know your type , Aen Saevherne... Nobody is a mysterious, impenetrable sage to his own daughter.’ She gestured for him, using the same hand with which she played with the ocelot. Of course. Of course.

Sometimes Enid behaved like she was, in fact, proud that her father had disowned her. Avallac’h could never understand that, not completely. Not even partly, perhaps – yet he kneeled, when Enid nonchalantly pushed him down.

‘My lady...’

‘Knock that off. I’m sure you called me a “know-it-all bitch” in my father's hearing. He made you Aen Saevherne really quickly, didn’t he?’ She kissed him before he managed to compose some sharp retort. From his temple, between the brows, across the bridge of his the nose, to his mouth. Short, dry touches of her lips. Very official, in some twisted way.

He didn’t try to make them deeper. He was, after all, but a king’s advisor. As he had experienced, royal blood was used to giving the grace of its sentiment in an absolutely unpredictable manner – and one could neither oppose this enigmatic power, nor force anything on it. One could only wait nearby. Those of royal blood would always come back, at the end, when they had enough – of playing, creating, destroying... They would always come back to the place where acceptance and calm waited. Always.

Unless they were stopped. By a blizzard, a child, some stupid, meaningless Dh’oine’s matters–

‘When you think about Lara, it always shows on your face. Do you know that?’ Enid laughed quietly and lightly bit his ear; her laugh was like a whisper of the atrium’s fountain. Pleasant. Sinking into the background. ‘Think of it as a bit of advice.’

Crevan murmured his thanks. She didn’t seem to listen too closely – she bent her head backwards, exposing her long neck, sharp shoulder blades, sky-blue veins under the alabaster skin. Her eyes, painted in deep violet, were half-lidded.

‘It’s your turn, now,’ she whispered. ‘I expect you to show a lot more passion.’

He looked at her – not lucidly enough, apparently, for she gave him a soft, condescending smile.‘I... There are matters of mine and of the Dol Blathanna that could use some luck, too. Much of it, I daresay. And, who knows, Crevan – perhaps it’s I who should be saying goodbye. It may be that I’ll be the one who will see the new land of my people, but never enter it. Or it may not be. Va’esse deireadh aep eigean. Either way, at the beginning or at the end – there's no such thing as too much luck.’


End file.
